


Close your eyes (clear your heart)

by prince_benji



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Anal Sex, Barebacking, Blow Jobs, Bond has feelings, Frottage, High Heels, Jealousy, Kink, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 13:07:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1186638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prince_benji/pseuds/prince_benji
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1163828">Blown (Away)</a>.</p><p>
  <i>The fact that a double-oh agent was seeing a MI6 executive had to pose some sort of security risk.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Close your eyes (clear your heart)

Driving over to Q’s had become a nice little routine, taking twenty-five to thirty minutes depending on the time of the night and the traffic flow, his record the week before had clocked in at just under twenty four. Bond found himself humming to the music coming from the radio and tapping the steering wheel as he drove, even bloody _whistling_ ; he was finding himself generally in annoyingly good spirits, knowing that Q was home and there was an enjoyable night ahead.

The fact that a double-oh agent was seeing a MI6 executive had to pose some sort of security risk, especially when the former was driving over at least once a week to the latter’s house, his Aston Martin not exactly a subtle choice of vehicle. Oddly, Q didn’t seem that concerned, remarking lightly that he trusted that Bond would notice any possible tails, and his house was actually quite break-in-proof anyway and he was eager to see the kind of fool that tried to come in via a window or through a locked door. (Bond made a mental note never to break in.)

That was the thing, though; Bond wasn’t sure that he would notice. He certainly wasn’t thinking of the job, or hostiles, or anything threatening in general, mostly just Q. Food for thought, that, but for later.

He let himself in, Q having texted him earlier that the door wasn't locked.

“Hello,” he called out, and headed to the kitchen when he received a muffled 'hello' in reply. Bond put the kettle on – waiting for Q to start playing host would take all night, and he had other things in mind – and took out two mugs and a tin of tea, glancing at Q who seemed to have set shop at the kitchen table.

“Q?” A distracted 'hm' answered his question. “I trust you to let me know if it's a bad time, or if I should check before coming.”

Q was tinkering, working light aimed at the project in hand, his mouth pressed into a line, glasses pushed up as far as they would go, his whole body a picture of concentration. Fresh out of work in a murky-green sweater and a pair of chequered trousers, hair still a bit damp from the eternal drizzle and pushed a bit haphazardly away from his face. He was quite beautiful, from where Bond was standing next to Q’s him, watching with interest at the current work in progress.

Q picked up the soldering iron and very carefully joined two pieces together, nodding in satisfaction at a job well done as he put down the iron and inspected the end result. Bond couldn’t quite withhold a smile and a shake of his head as Q picked up the fixed pair of glasses and tried them on after taking his regular ones off.

"I wear these at home," he explained. "I just managed to knock them off the table last week and they snapped. I’m not buying another pair for something I can fix."

Of course he wouldn't. For a man who wore three-hundred-pound cardigans he was quite the scrooge. Bloody endearing, actually.

Q cleaned his iron and put away the tools, and switched off the glaring working light, and only then returned his attention to the conversation while Bond handed him his tea.

"If you need do check before coming over?” Q blinked. “It would likely save you a few trips taken in vain because I’m not home much, but then you mostly know my schedule. Or what did you mean?"

"I meant if you have someone over, and are busy, and need me to back off. If you need to," Bond shrugged lightly, "make room in your schedule for other people. Partners."

God help him he wasn’t going to use the word lover. All in all it wasn’t the sort of discussion he wanted to be having, but it would be ludicrous to expect monogamy on Q’s end, or any sort of exclusiveness, and it was fair, laying out the rules.

They weren't official, or dating, although Q had humorously recounted some rumours from the Branch – Bond hadn't honestly known that MI6 employed so many gossips, it had to be the spying business that brought it out in people -- and Bond didn't want to think about it, let alone talk about it. Exclusive wasn't in the cards, absolutely couldn't be. This impossible kid. Absolute sex fiend underneath the proper decorum, and yet brilliant, and not sex crazy, and the last thing Bond wanted was to walk in on someone else shagging the Quartermaster.

He’d seen Q fiddling with his mobile phone and then quickly stashing it away when he spotted Bond, and it was such a classic move that he found it somewhat amusing despite himself. He didn’t ask, and he didn’t poke and prod, but it was only sensible to make sure that Q knew he didn’t have to hide his actions, and his communications with other people.

Q appeared a bit puzzled, blowing gently on his tea, and then he smiled. “Partners? Honestly, James. I have one day off per week if I’m lucky.”

"Well, your performance doesn't exactly hint at any lack of practice," Bond said, and then took a swig of his tea, deciding that he really didn't like Earl Grey all that much; too bad was all Q had in the house.

"I’m not inexperienced," Q said, appearing a bit amused. "Or celibate for that matter. It’s been a while since I’ve had anyone over, or gone out for a pull, though. You can thank Mallory for that."

"How so?"

"I’ve become increasingly aware just how unsafe your usual clubs can be," Q said a little drolly, "when you happen to be the head of a MI6 branch. M’s paranoia about security seems to be catching. So it’s old acquaintances or nothing. Friends from uni, that sort of stuff."

Friends from uni; men his age, men with a shared history and interests. Safer than strangers, certainly, but not ideal from where Bond was looking at it.

"Or co-workers," Bond suggested a bit flatly.

"Or co-workers," Q agreed, voice light and pleased. "That was quite nicely done, James. Very convenient."

“And you're still not concerned about me coming over.”

Q sighed. “Let's look at it this way. Between ourselves we are likely the two most lethal men working for MI6. No, I'm not terribly concerned. You have your weapon?”

Bond nodded. Q nodded too, looking like he had just made a point and took a pleased little sip of his Earl Grey.

* * *

That was the only thing that had noticeably changed.

When they were alone, and not on the job, Q called him James.

Otherwise all the things were the same. Q took very little shit from any of the agents, including him (especially him), kitted him out with a weapon and a radio with a 'that's all, 007, do mind the equipment', still withholding all the good stuff while pretending that there weren’t any (like Bond hadn't heard the cackling coming from the R&D while they tested Q's new inventions, and if they were Q's they were bound to be good), offered helpful and unhelpful snarky commentary alike over the comms when he was out in the field, still hadn’t given him a glimpse of any pair of heels that he now knew Q owned.

One other thing had changed, too. He could now walk in from the gym in his training clothes, bypassing the showers completely, and find Q in his office, and he could close the door, lean on the wall, and have Q’s mouth around his cock in less than thirty seconds. Well, just once, because after Bond had finished coming and Q had finished swallowing and tamed his hair back into relative normalcy after Bond’s hands had snagged and pulled, he had drily suggested that they should try and avoid getting sacked for shagging in the office because _Mallory doesn’t know how to bloody knock_.

He’d then looked at Bond, pursing his mouth a little as he woke up his laptop again and returned to work; sometimes his efficiency scared Bond a little. “Besides, if you expect me to suck your cock every time you turn up looking gorgeous you’re just setting yourself up for disappointment. I have an actual job, you know, and it's not called 'blow'.”

Like he didn’t get off on that; Bond didn’t kid himself that Q did it just for him.

"So far so good. Your desk looks sturdy," Bond had said in response, and Q had laughed just as he tried to maintain the scolding look while typing.

"You are not shagging me on my bloody desk, James," he’d said with a flick of his gaze, and that was the first time he’d used Bond’s first name. “Never going to happen.”

He should've known better than to say 'never'. Bond smirked. "Say that again after a thirty-six hour shift and I might believe you.”

"You think adding sleep-deprivation to the equation makes it more likely for you to get laid on my desk?" Q tsked. "I prefer a bed, thank you very much, especially after working three shifts in a row. I’m a walking zombie by that point. Unless of course you prefer a less than conscious partner."

Bond’s expression froze just the slightest bit. “I much prefer a conscious, able, and willing partner,” he said. “Which you should know.”

"Since we started fraternising?" Q asked, again annoyingly lightly, clearly not noticing that Bond wasn't matching his tone. It was absolute evasion, hiding behind such an airy tone, and it grated on Bond.

"Since you started monitoring my missions," Bond said. "And on that note, duty calls. Hear you soon, Quartermaster."

* * *

The mission was a bloody _bore_ , and he couldn't help thinking of all the more pleasant things he could be doing than biding his time in a shitty motel in Portuguese countryside and waiting for the target to show up (which was just a matter of time, according to first intel, and then Q; Bond was of half a mind to ditch the whole thing). Meanwhile he was hot, and itchy, and he missed Q's lips on his and his cock and the light melodic voice in his ear. (Q had gone home, leaving just the skeleton staff at the Branch. Bond didn't wish to spare a single thought to whether he was alone or not.)

Wishing that they were Q's fingers and not his own, he slid his hand down his torso and unbuttoned his trousers, closing his eyes and sighing around a grunt.

Bond masturbated for the first time in a long while, very much like an excited schoolboy thinking of his crush, very much unlike a grown man who could go out to acquire a partner even in this hell hole, who was in fact used to picking up any partner he wanted to, and now he was pulling at his prick like a teenager hit with a blast of hormones, thinking about Q, and his mouth specifically; how Q indulged his fantasies by putting on his brightest lipstick and allowing it to smear all over his face and Bond’s cock.

He shifted, spreading his legs a bit more, and pictured Q’s long, lean frame, the unlikely curves on that thin body, the broad shoulders and the v-shaped torso, narrow in all the right places and curved gorgeously in all the rest, his hips a stark contrast to the almost non-existent waist that truly needed no corset for emphasis. How he flushed and his breath caught when Bond slid a pair of fingers into him, and licked at his cock.

And Bond came all over his stomach, prick clutched in hand, reaching for a tissue just as he mentally mocked himself for getting entangled with the least likely person in existence, namely his pedantic, annoying, sarcastic boy-whippet of a Quartermaster who really was too smart for his own good and not the least bit modest about the fact.

He was beautiful, though — again, not the most obvious kind of beauty, hidden behind and beneath glasses and perpetual bed head and unflattering clothing, all bright eyes and clear skin —, and Bond had never been able to resist someone who was so fully their own person and so secure in who they were, and what they were capable of.

"I am absolutely done apologising for what I like, and enjoy," Q had said after they finished their tea on their first night together, their feet mingling rather comfortably under his kitchen table. "And I'm also done explaining myself. I like some things. I don’t like them all the time, and I don’t require them to get going, but I like them sometimes and that’s just what I do."

It had had the air of practice, his little speech, and Bond had imagined some partners hadn't been as keen, and he'd silently marvelled how anyone could pass him by. Q was younger, so likely it had been an age-mate, full of hormones and rearing to go until faced with a bit of kink, or some older man perhaps, eager to get a piece of a younger man but not willing to indulge his quirks.

Bond had told him that Q didn't have to explain himself, and that he was quite keen to see him in his heels.

"Would you, now.” Q's lashes had fluttered a bit as he'd ducked his head.

"I have a vivid imagination, and I'm rather intrigued," Bond had said, which was true, he did — part of the job description, actually, and it wasn’t something you just turned off — but the Q in his head had to pale before the real thing.

"I suppose you must come by another time, then," Q had said, and it clearly read as an invitation.

"I suppose I must," he'd said, and that had been that.

Now, though, Bond thought back on all the rules about fraternising that he'd never even considered before, admitting with quite some reluctance that there might be something to it, some wisdom he's been all to eager to forego for a piece of the Quartermaster, and if it wouldn't be better for all concerned if he sometime just didn't come back.

* * *

Of course he comes back, and not simply because there's unfinished business (it's become a codeword for the two of them; business, meaning sex, and it at least doubles the innuendo, and even Bond cannot fault the Branch minions for gossiping because they're two grown men and should get a bloody grip). (Maybe after the business is finished.)

The first time they fuck it’s not on Q’s desk, nor is anyone deprived of anything — in fact Q’s on a holiday, all of a week (adorably a bit miffed about the whole thing) and Bond is back from a mission where he had all the sex he could stomach with two different women — and Q leads Bond to his bedroom, holding his hand, and again Bond cannot shake the persistent idea of teenage sweethearts, even though he’s way past boyhood and so is Q who is certainly not a girl, and neither of them has been a virgin for years. Q’s not hesitant or shy or embarrassed, but acting so naturally and so unashamedly that Bond does his best to shed all his own reservations.

Q wants to start by kissing and sucking him everywhere, and Bond not so much lets him but revels in it, and even the scars — in various stages of healing, and visibility — are not so ugly and gruesome when they are being kissed, tongued even, and Q is very thorough. He grabs and palms at Bond’s muscles, his both hands together barely spanning Bond’s biceps, cheeks flushing as he presses kiss to the bulging muscle, admitting in a whispery voice that he’s actually drawn to the dissimilarity in their bodies, and looking pleased/delighted when Bond admits the same. Bond is a bit taken aback when Q bites down on his shoulder, a brief, stinging pain that throbs even after Q releases the bite, only to move forward to a better, meatier spot.

Q slithers down and doesn’t give any verbal encouragement, he doesn’t marvel at the size or the hardness or the thickness of Bond’s prick, but his sucking is a bit desperate, his jaw open and straining, and Bond honest to God thinks that he goes without breathing as long as he can, because he’s panting when he comes up for air, and he goes back down as soon as he’s able, until Bond drags him back up to kiss him properly. Q’s fingers tangle in his short hair as well as they can, and he pulls and tugs, it is actually a bit painful and Q grins into the kiss as Bond grunts.

Q is thin and light, and it’s easy to manoeuvre him around so that he’s on his back on the bed, his legs falling open to give Bond more space, and his ribs stand out, his stomach almost concave, and Bond wants him so badly it almost comes out as a needy sound, but he sucks kisses all over Q’s torso, and his thighs, so narrow he could fit them both in his hands, could bend Q over so that his knees are hitting his ears almost, and Q keens, and wants him, and Bond gives him his tongue and fucks into him long and slow.

Q’s thighs honest-to-God clamp around his head, and Bond laughs in surprise, muffled, against his arse. He is clean and tastes like water after their shower together, and has so little body hair he is practically bald down there — he might wax, but Bond doesn’t ask, because he’s fucking hard and he needs to be inside sooner rather than later.

Q moans into his own fist when Bond slips two fingers inside him, his inner muscles clamping down of their own volition, and he coaxes him to relax and to open, because otherwise it’s going to hurt, even with lots of lube it will hurt if Q doesn’t relax, and Q pushes out and turns a beautiful shade of pink as Bond’s fingers suddenly slide in a lot farther and he lets out a guttural, aroused sound at the sight/feel of Q’s body accepting him.

His legs spread and raised, the balls of his feet dig into Bond’s meatier shoulders as Bond folds him and applies more lube and pushes inside, no condom because neither wants any and to hell with being cautious with something as heady as this. Q’s shaking with the power of Bond’s thrusts, his back rubbing against the coverlet, and he’s almost wailing, and Bond knows this pleasure, irregularly spiked with delicious pain, the deep burn where his body is split open by the bulk of Bond’s cock, dragging against his tissues and God, they are both going to feel this fuck for days.

It occurs to Bond, very briefly, that this is not what he thought, this is absolutely the epitome of unexpected, a lovely, wild thing of a young man who likes being beautiful and doesn’t mind the ugly, so utterly without guile he would be instantly suspicious if it were anyone else.

"I don’t want to hear about your other partners, or see any evidence of them, I don’t want you thinking about some old fuck when you’re with me." He lets that slip, and doesn’t try and take it away, because while jealousy is a ridiculous concept for a man like him, any possessiveness is downright laughable, it’s still an ugly thought that Q could have others just as easily; ugly, disgusting thought that some old friend from uni would be slobbering all over Q’s body, thrusting his prick between Q’s lips, absolutely and utterly undeserved.

"Why, what, why would I, Jesus bloody Christ you’re so fucking hard," Q stutters in reply, "ow, oh my God, fuck me until I bleed James, don’t stop no, there’s not anyone --"

Again it’s there, the thought that he’s actually fucking Q out of his virginity, that when they stop — when he’s finished, _done_ — there’s going to be blood on the sheets and it’s embarrassing how hard it makes him, it feels like his erection gains inches from the mere thought and Q tightens and gurgles in his throat when James’s prick gets even harder, and he’s sinking all the way in now, tissue against tissue and Q will be walking funnily for days, and Bond is going to end up with a ice pack down his pants but he’s going to come, and he pushes in as far as he can, feeling Q clench and buckle as he bottoms out, and bites his teeth together furiously as he comes deep inside Q’s body.

Q is so close to coming his body is taut like a bowstring, his thighs shaking when Bond pulls out, his body grasping at Bond’s cock like it's unwilling to separate. He whines and thrashes when Bond swoops lower to take the head of his cock into his mouth, then when he's pushing his mouth down the shaft with just the hint of teeth, Q’s fingers almost rip off the bedding when he comes, his hips thrusting up and gagging Bond slightly as he keeps swallowing desperately. Q’s come is bitter and copious, and he keeps shuddering, deep, full-body shudders that coincide gorgeously with his moans.

There is a bit of blood and Q looks almost proud and a little bashful, and he keeps sucking kisses and biting into Bond’s shoulders as he’s escorted to the bathroom to wash and inspect the damage done, and Q quietly confesses that while he’s not into pain _all that much_ , he likes it a bit rough, and he adores a bit of biting, and Bond wonders who the fuck would have guessed, and bloody hell this is not a good idea.

* * *

The pasta was very nice. The wine was excellent. Bond finished his glass and waited in expectant silence for the dessert that Q had prepared beforehand and had promised to serve after dinner.

They were at Q’s house, again — it was starting to feel disturbingly familiar, much more than his own apartment — and Q returned with the crème brûlé, smiling at the look on Bond’s face. They were comfortable, both in jeans — Q’s far skinnier than Bond’s, extremely skinny in fact — and t-shirts, although Q’s again is tighter than Bond’s.

(Q checked his phone before putting the pasta to boil, and Bond pretended not to notice as Q seemed to be typing and then put the phone away with a thoughtful pout. It's okay. It's all okay.)

Q tottered just the slightest bit when he came to the table, mostly because one of Bond’s hands was squeezing his arse, a surprisingly full one for such a boyish figure, and flushed a little just as he tilted his pelvis for better access.

"If you fall I’ll catch you," Bond said half-humorously, copping a very unashamed feel of Q who he seemed to have an endless fascination for these days, and smirked at the sassy pout that formed.

"You try walking in four inch heels when there’s a caveman mauling your arse," Q said.

Those fucking heels. Q had let him in and asked him to make himself comfortable, and then returned upstairs, only to come back down a minute or so later, tall and lovely in a pair of stiletto heels, his hands clasped together in front of his body and pushing his shoulders forward a bit shyly at the first look. Q was taller now, proportioned like a supermodel, all lean, endlessly long legs, and they kissed with Bond’s hands on his arse, Q’s hands on his shoulders, in no hurry to get to the dinner part of the evening.

"Do you remember what you said the first time you were here?" Q asked over the dessert.

"I said a lot of things, I’m sure," Bond returned. Q was perched on his lap, balancing beautifully on one thigh, eating his dessert with tiny spoonfuls and licking his lips afterwards like the cat that got the canary.

"You said you wanted to fuck me in heels," Q said, tongue again coming out for a careful lick at the corners of his mouth. "Only, James, I’m a little too sore, still, after last weekend."

"Oh, I’m sorry," Bond said automatically, even though he knew by now that Q didn’t mind a little soreness.

"No, it’s fine, I thought, maybe —" Q was adorably lost, and didn’t seem to know how to ask, so Bond tried to make it easier.

"Do it the other way around?" he suggested.

"No, although that’s an idea, I thought, you could finish on my back or in my mouth…"

~

Waxing or not, Bond appreciated the near lack of friction, his cock sliding easily in Q's crack, his buttocks tightening around Bond, bent forward by his waist and offering his arse to be fucked.

He had a beautiful, long back, ending in a pair of dimples just above the buttocks, which Bond had spent minutes tonguing like they were the most precious fucking thing in the world – and who was to claim that they weren't. Bond spent some seconds in mild regret that Q didn't have a corresponding rack to fuck, because he shivered beautifully, his skin flushing everywhere with arousal as Bond rutted against him, lube and pre-come slick between them, skin on skin.

The heels did put Q at an elevated height, and the angle was perfect for Bond to push against Q's hole once in a while, unstretched and unlubricated, and still giving in just the tiniest amount when Bond put his back into it, and Q's voice broke in a moan at the implied entry; Bond wouldn't, of course, because Q was still too sore for fingering – they had tried, mainly because they were like two youngsters in heat, and it had been a no-go, because rough was one thing and genuine pain and possible damage was another, and Bond wasn't an actual brute if he could help it – and the slick was absolutely too little for penetration, but it spurred Q on and it was such a fucking turn on for Bond he hoped he wouldn't come too soon.

The heels did amazing things to his legs, and his arse, adding just the hint of femininity to someone otherwise unmistakeably masculine. He was so fucking lean though, so lean that if Bond put his hands around his waist it felt almost like his fingers would meet. Q's jeans were bunched somewhere around his knees, his t-shirt pushed up to his armpits to bare his back, and Bond's jeans were somewhere mid-thigh, likely getting drips of the lube/pre-come mixture. He bent forward over Q, and fixed his teeth on his nape, biting down just as he pushed his cock up the crack in one long delicious slide, grinning almost ferally as Q's breath hitched and his arse pushed back. Q had wrapped a loose hand around his own cock, wanking slowly, and Bond saw him still his hand just as his back tensed, and he didn't want Q staving off his orgasm if he were that close.

“Let it go, darling, let it go,” he whispered, and Q cried out a little as his hips hitched and pushed, his buttocks tensing further around Bond's cock as he came.

Bond pulled back enough to thrust against Q's entrance a few times, and then slotted his cock back in Q's crack, winding one arm around Q's heaving chest as he pressed closer with his hips, grunting almost painfully as he orgasmed and his come splattered Q's buttocks and the small of his back. His chest was pressed against Q's back, and he was aware that his heart was beating a staccato and so was Q's, both coming down from the same high.

“I think I like the heels,” he commented against Q's sweaty nape, and the Quartermaster snorted, turning his head to kiss Bond properly.

He'd let the 'darling' slip before, too, (after Q had called him 'James') but it was okay because calling him Q, or Quartermaster when he was coming would have felt rather odd and slightly impersonal, even though it was his name now for all intents and purposes.

The not-okay part about calling him 'darling' was finding that he meant it.

* * *

Bond spent the night, not the first time; they had already decided on which side either would take and settle accordingly; Bond on the left, Q on the right, nearer to the bathroom. Q curled into a question mark shape when in bed, and Bond was only able to get one arm partly around him, and even then just his fingers were brushing Q's chest. He dozed for a bit while Q turned off the lights and then woke to nothing, to Q being on his mobile, the blue glare of the screen obvious in the dark.

“What's keeping you up?” Bond grunted/slurred, tightening his fingers just the tiniest bit and then releasing, thinking that if it was work he would have to talk Q into staying at home.

Q twitched, startled, and quickly shut his mobile and stashed it under his pillow. “Oh it was nothing. Sorry if I woke you up.”

Said with an air of embarrassment that shouldn't be there. Ignoring the cost, Bond counted ten breaths, getting more awake by the second, and said, “Q, it's okay. If, I'm not the only one it's okay.”

Should have seen this. It's okay. _Darling_. Fuck.

Q went absolutely tense. Bond heard him swallow, and then ask, “What do you mean?”

“I mean if you have another, if there's somebody, some other man.” Had he once been smooth, suave, or eloquent? Had he developed a bloody stutter now? It's fucking okay. “You don't have to hide it. It's okay. We might want to consider condoms though.”

Q was silent for a second and then rolled over, dislodging Bond's arm in the process, and pulled slightly away. He sat up and gathered the duvet in his lap. “What are you talking about? Some other man, what the hell, James.”

“Q.”

“You think I'm fucking -- What kind of person exactly do you take me for? Jesus.” Q snapped his mouth shut, and then swung his legs over the edge of the bed, throwing a furious glare at Bond who instinctively made a little movement as though to follow. “ _Don't_.”

“Q,” Bond said as Q got up, and winced as he slammed the bathroom door shut some seconds later. He closed his eyes, and counted his heartbeats while waiting for Q to calm down and to come back. He heard the tap going off, and Q came back a minute later, leaving the light on and the door open. Q picked up his mobile from the bed and threw it at James, the phone landing on his bare chest with a thud. Bond winced but made no move to pick it up.

“Go on. Check my calls, and my messages, and my mails if you like. There's no-one else. And for the record you shouldn't call me darling while we're shagging if it doesn't mean anything to you, that's not okay.” Q pinched his mouth shut and bit his lips, and then exhaled a bit shakily. “It's not fucking okay, alright?”

Bond picked up the mobile phone and put it away. “Where exactly are you getting the idea that it doesn't mean anything to me?” he asked calmly. “When out of London, I'm working, the sex is not exactly pleasure is it, it's part of the bloody job. When I'm in London, I'm either at Medical, or HQ, or at yours, and I'm not going around calling people darling just for the fucking fun of it.”

Q stared at him, still standing, and making no move to get back in the bed. “I know you don't. I've listened to you shag more women that I've shaken hands with, and you really don't. I just, I have no idea where this comes from. I really don't like you telling me it's okay if there's someone else, because there isn't..”

“The phone though?” Bond asked mildly. “A few minutes ago? You're texting somebody else, and hiding it when you notice that I saw. You said that bit about uni friends. I just meant to say you don't need to hide.”

Q blinked, annoyed. “Wait, what? Repeat please?”

Bond sighed, and rubbed at his mouth with his hand. “I said you're texting someone else, and that you don't need to be so secretive.”

Q stood still a few moments, still glaring, and said, “Jesus, have you been thinking this whole time there's someone else? That friends from uni thing was before you. I thought I made it clear the first time we talked about this. I haven't been hiding any--” Then the rest of what Bond had said seemed to sink in because he blinked and then snorted, then started to giggle, bringing his hand to his mouth.

Bond frowned in bemusement as Q doubled over and kept laughing, his laughter tinged with a slight edge of hysteria.

“Oh my God,” Q said when he caught his breath enough to speak. He wiped at his eyes with both hands, shoulders still shaking and hiccuping a little. “Jesus. I can't believe it.”

“Are you alright?” Bond asked a little flatly.

“You bloody idiot. I haven't been texting anyone.” He laughed, and to Bond' s surprise got back to bed, shaking his head. “It's a stupid fucking game. It's embarrassing. If the minions saw me playing they'd take the piss forever. You would too. It's about taking this bird through these pipe things. It's _stupid_. And you could have _asked_ before assuming I'm having affairs left and right.”

Bond remained still as Q got back under his duvet. Bloody relieved, if he were honest. “You've been playing some game and you didn't want me to see.”

Q sighed, as if put upon that he was being so slow. “Yes, James. I've been playing some game. Increasingly. One might say I'm addicted. What's worse, I suck.”

“And you're not texting anyone?”

Q's face softened a little, perhaps reading between the lines. “No, I'm not texting anyone. And if you're going to keep telling me to have other lovers I'm going to kick you off this bed.”

Bond bit his lips and masked the snort of amusement into a cough. “Did you really just admit that you're bad at something?” he asked, earning himself a jab from a sharp elbow between his ribs (which could have been accidental, but considering that Q was something of a demon it likely wasn't).

“You of all people should know that one shouldn't admit to weakness,” Q said and burrowed closer to Bond. “And I said 'I suck'. Which you should know already.” His hand travelled down Bond's body under the duvet, and squeezed his relaxed prick. “And unless you cease making fun of me I can quite easily stop.”

Bond snorted. Mercurial boy. “You like it way too much to stop.”

“So you say.” Q didn't stop touching him, his fingers stroking up and down, and made a little noise in the back of his throat as Bond hardened in his hand. “So, deal?”

Bond grunted in reply.

“No more talk about other partners, I'm sick of that, you don't breathe one word to the minions about Flappy bird, we agree this is not a bloody friends with benefits arrangement,” his hand tightened a little, and he started to slide down Bond's body, under the duvet, voice becoming a bit muffled. “And I'll just continue sucking.”

Bond grunted agreement.


End file.
